


too much

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, M/M, Omorashi, Sorta., Watersports, author is somewhat ashamed of posting this, emphasis on the light part lol, idk yall its piss ! theres not many tags that are relevant !, very light dom/sub themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 21:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19449634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: its a piss fic what else do you want me to say? crowley pisses himself. thats it. (michael sheen please dont read this)





	too much

**Author's Note:**

> It’s canon in the book that demons do, in fact, piss: “He'd slept right through most of the nineteenth century, for example. Not because he needed to, simply because he enjoyed it. [Although he did have to get up in 1832 to go to the lavatory.]” Sorry if anything else is out of character but let’s be honest, you came here to read a piss fic, not to be nitpicky about characterization.

Aziraphale grabs Crowley by the hips and leads him into the wall behind them, subtly inching Crowley backwards until his back presses against the wallpaper and his chest rests against Aziraphale’s. The angel leans in and whispers against the demon’s lips, faint words that can barely be heard above the beating of their two hearts:

“Do it.”

Crowley flushes, knowing what it is his angelic partner wants of him, but unwilling to give in to his demands so easily.

“Whatddyamean?” Crowley replies, maintaining his bastard persona. His words run together and his voice trembles a bit, counteracting any coyness he had attempted to convey. Instead of responding vocally, Aziraphale moves one hand from its position on Crowley’s hip to his swollen lower abdomen, applying pressure slightly. He watches the demon’s pupils widen slightly as a low whine escapes from the back of his throat, seemingly involuntarily. 

“I think you know my intentions, dear.” Aziraphale applies pressure once again, not forcefully enough to be painful but enough to draw out that same whine that Crowley emits as a _hnnng ._ Crowley leans away from the touch, almost willing his body closer into the wall trying to escape the heaviness of Aziraphale’s hand where it rests above his bladder. Sensing his discomfort, Aziraphale removes his hand (evoking a relieved sigh from Crowley) and lifts himself up on tiptoes to first lightly kiss Crowley on the cheek, then to say to him, “You _will_ let me know if you want me to stop, won’t you?”

Crowley responds to Aziraphale’s question by nuzzling their cheeks together and assuring him that, “Of course, Angel, this is--” he’s cut off by a sudden spasm in his bladder that forces him to squeeze his thighs impossibly closer together. His voice is strained when he speaks back up. “This is fine.” Aziraphale reaches the hand that was until recently pressed to Crowley’s midriff and cups his face, rubbing his thumb over the demon’s cheek bone and smiling sweetly. His actions, however, do not match his innocent demeanor. He begins to nudge his thigh between Crowley’s legs, at first unsuccessfully. He is persistent, though, and eventually Crowley’s thighs separate to accommodate Aziraphale’s.

The split second in which Crowley’s thighs are apart brings about a sudden spurt that signifies the beginning the end--his control slowly slipping away whether he wants it to or not. He gasps at the sudden release, which quickly turns into an embarrassed, choked sob. The leak ends when Aziraphale secures his thigh between Crowley’s, positioned so as to not allow any more liquid to escape at the moment. Crowley pushes himself down on Aziraphale’s leg, partly to prevent himself from further losing himself and partly because of the pleasure that shoots up his spine when he grinds down.

Aziraphale breaks the extended eye contact he’s had with Crowley throughout the past few moments to look down and assess the damage done, but finds that there’s not even a hint of moisture on the leather pants (he intends to amend this immediately). Crowley has taken the brief reprieve from Aziraphale’s stare to recollect himself and focus more intently on holding in his situation. He’s vaguely aware how this is all going to end, but he’d like to hold out as long as possible, if for no reason other than maintaining a facade of dignity. 

The angel seems to have other plans, though, because he suddenly brings their mouths together in an unexpected kiss, aiming to catch Crowley off-guard. Crowley, overwhelmed by the kiss, loses focus on his bladder and for a moment that lasts much longer than that of the one previous, urine surges out of him hot and urgent. The leather still hasn’t been soaked enough for the liquid to make its way through the material, so Aziraphale still doesn’t feel the wetness of it all. The way Crowley is pressed against Aziraphale’s thigh does, however, grant him the ability to feel the movement of the stream as it rushes around his leg and down the legs of the demon in front of him. 

Crowley’s complete inability to regain control over his body lasts only a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity (this coming from a being who’s been alive for six thousand years). He’s only able to stop the flow by pulling back from the kiss and pushing down impossibly harder on the thigh between his legs. Aziraphale gives Crowley a moment to catch his breath, and in that moment he gazes at Crowley intently, determined to commit every detail of his disheveled state to memory. He first takes in the flush that has encompassed Crowley; a deep blush coats the tips of his ears and his cheeks most notably, but his entire face has gone a pale shade of red. The next thing he notices is the sweat accumulated on Crowley’s skin due to the exertion of the holding. Aziraphale leans in to Crowley and licks at his neck, tasting the salt of the aforementioned sweat mixed with the taste of skin that is unable to be described as anything besides uniquely Crowley. 

The demon sighs, not quite relaxing into the touch since relaxing any of his muscles would be detrimental at the moment, but certainly enjoying the feeling. Aziraphale moves on from licking to kissing, working his way up Crowley’s neck, then along his jawline, and finally to the very corner of his mouth where he presses a final gentle kiss before moving on to kiss him properly. Unlike their previous kiss, this one is not done hastily or with the intention of surprise. Aziraphale kisses Crowley because in this moment, he physically can’t restrain himself any longer. He brings his arms up to wrap around Crowley’s shoulders, hands grasping at his back and bodies drawn closer than either of them thought possible. 

It’s all tongues and heat and wet and neither of them notice the effect it has on Crowley vis-a-vis inadvertently letting go until Aziraphale notices his leg growing warmer and a faint hissing that has mostly been obscured by the sound of their breathing. Crowley lets out a yelp in surprise when he realizes what’s happening and brings himself out of the kiss to recenter his thoughts. He’s able to stop himself from wetting any further, but not before Aziraphale gets a good look at the wet patch where Crowley’s crotch meets his leg steadily growing thanks to the leather finally oversaturating and no longer being able to keep the liquid within the confines of the fabric. Crowley is mortified by the sheer size of the stain but he’s also more comfortable now, since the release was significant enough to lessen the pressure building up inside his bladder.

The material glistens where it’s wet and Aziraphale can’t help but reach down to touch it, fingers dancing along the slippery fabric swiftly. Crowley tucks his head into the space between Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder, hoping that he’ll be able to focus better if he doesn’t look at the expression on his angel’s face as he traces the seams on his pants. The touches aren’t enough to bring Crowley any real satisfaction; they’re just enough to remind him of the ever growing problem between his legs. His desperation prevents him from becoming properly erect, but it doesn’t prevent the bloodrush altogether and at the moment he’s sporting a reasonably sized bulge. Experimentally, Aziraphale lies his palm on it squeezes. Crowley shudders.

Curious to see what it would take to get a stronger reaction out of Crowley, Aziraphale squeezes Crowley again, but instead of letting go, he strokes him up and down, letting the slick of the pants guide his movements. Crowley moans into Aziraphale’s neck, getting out the word “ _Please ,_ ” before being reduced to whines again as Aziraphale’s speed picks up. The comfort granted by his most recent accident doesn’t last very long; his need is growing back to full strength. On one of Aziraphale’s down strokes, Crowley feels himself begin to release in a way unlike earlier. Instead of an urgent relief, he feels himself begin to leak a convulsive stream that varies in speed and bubbles up through the fabric just to drip down his front. His overused muscles are too spent to prevent the leakage altogether so the most he can do is keep the stream slow, although even that is impossible during some moments.

“Are you ready?” Aziraphale asks into Crowley’s ear, which is still positioned into the nook of Aziraphale’s neck. Crowley nods in response, and Aziraphale moves the hand that’s not on Crowley’s crotch to press on his abdomen, encouraging his inevitable release. It’s uncomfortable at first, both the pressure and the idea of giving in, but Aziraphale’s still stroking him and at one point he brushes the head of his dick over the fabric and he just _can’t_ anymore, it’s all just too much, so he lets go. The rush of liquid suddenly erupting out of Crowley catches Aziraphale somewhat off-guard but he adjusts quickly, stopping his strokes in favor of simply cupping Crowley with his hand to feel the urine bursting out of him. It’s a terribly intimate experience to feel the rush beneath his palm. Crowley sobs in relief into Aziraphale’s shoulder, placing his arms above his shoulders and leaning his weight into him. Aziraphale easily supports him and moves his hand off of Crowley’s bladder to rub his back softly while making gentle shushing noises. Crowley has been rendered silent, gasping wordlessly and heaving his chest at the near-orgasmic feeling of abatement in his bladder. Aziraphale closes his eyes with a sigh, relishing in the feeling of Crowley washing over his leg.

What was once a wet spot on Aziraphale’s thigh has expanded to encompass the entirety of the upper pant leg with streaks dripping down the side in the khaki tan material. His pants absorb whatever liquid comes in contact with them, but Crowley’s don’t at all, leading to the development of a puddle beneath them. The flow begins to stop its constant existence and develops into a random series of unpredictable spurts. Every time Crowley thinks he’s finally finished, he begins again and he gasps in surprise at the sensation each time. Eventually it does taper off for the final time and Crowley is left utterly spent and trembling slightly. Aziraphale shakes his hand dry before reaching up and placing it at the back of Crowley’s head, fingers weaving into his hair and massaging in small circular motions. “Mmm” is all Crowley can manage. Aziraphale kisses Crowley on the cheek and commends him,

“You did so well, dear.” Crowley doesn’t process the compliment immediately, overly aware suddenly of how tired he is. He’s so zoned out that he’s only vaguely aware of Aziraphale undoing his pants and sliding them down his legs, struggling a bit because of the whole tight, wet leather thing. He manages to get them into a heap on the ground though, and does the same to Crowley’s boxers, which are now entirely soaked. Crowley doesn’t even react when Aziraphale lifts him up bridal style, he just obediently adjusts his body to make the process easier. Aziraphale carries Crowley into the bedroom and sets him down gently on the bed. He removes his socks, which were also caught in the flood. He makes his way to the exit of the room, promising to return after he’s cleaned everything up but he feels a tug and sees Crowley has grabbed his hand, preventing him from going any farther.

“Angel?” He calls in a sleepy voice.

“Yes, dear?” Crowley murmurs something incomprehensible, sleep making him senseless and ridiculous. Crowley asks for him to repeat himself on the off chance he said something important in his piss induced exhaustion.

“Is _a_ id--” He opens his eyes to look into Aziraphale’s, but gravity brings them shut against his will as he struggles to keep awake. He speaks into his pillow but Aziraphale is able to make out his message of “‘Loveyo _u_.” And then Crowley’s hand is limp and he’s asleep, allowing Aziraphale to set Crowley’s hand down on the bed. He leaves the room quietly, careful not to wake him up and looking forward to when he will be able to crawl into bed with him just as soon as he takes care of the mess that was left behind.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry


End file.
